SueWorks

The Real Me

Why Christmas is in December and Witches were Burned at the Stake

It's the Winter Solstice today, there is also a Summer Solstice.  If I read more carefully I think I'd find that when the USA is having the Winter one Australia is having the Summer one and vice versa.

Humans have always tried to justify their existence and we should continue to do that.  Commemorations like the Solstice and like Christmas are attempts at this.  I think celebrating, recognizing and attempting to make sense of things is vital because it makes no sense that we're on this little spec of dust in this vast galaxy in an unfathomably vast universe.  This is especially true when we're more concerned about pregnant teens on TV then that average teen who is trying not to become pregnant.

I will not dance taken under the moon of the longest night.  I will probably watch some quasi-news program that will mention as it's lead what Nickelodeon should or shouldn't do.  On second thought it would be more healthy for me and for Pkin if we did the former and not the latter.  Hum ....

An Early Memorial Day

Pkin shared this:

I never know how deeply I believe the anonymous author emails that pop up from time to time, but, this one has a certain ring of truth to it.

Cemetery Escort Duty

I just wanted to get the day over with and go down to Smokey’s for a few cold ones. Sneaking a look at my watch, I saw the time, 1655. Five minutes to go before the cemetery gates are closed for the day. Full dress was hot in the August sun. Oklahoma summertime was as bad as ever — the heat and humidity at the same level — both too high.

I saw the car pull into the drive, ‘69 or ‘70 model Cadillac Deville, looked factory-new. It pulled into the parking lot at a snail’s pace.

An old woman got out so slow I thought she was paralyzed. She had a cane and a sheaf of flowers, about four or five bunches as best I could tell. I couldn't help myself. The thought came unwanted, and left a slightly bitter taste: “She’s going to spend an hour, and for this old soldier my hip hurts like hell and I’m ready to get out of here right now!”

But for this day my duty was to assist anyone coming in. Kevin would lock the “In” gate and if I could hurry the old biddy along , we might make the last half of happy hour at Smokey’s

I broke Post Attention My hip made gritty noises when I took the first step and the pain went up a notch. I must have made a real military sight; middle-aged man with a small pot-gut and half a limp, in Marine Full Dress Uniform, which had lost its razor crease about 30 minutes after I began the watch at the cemetery.

I stopped in front of her, halfway up the walk. She looked up at me with an old woman’s squint. “Ma’am, may I assist you in any way?”

She took long enough to answer. “Yes, son. Can you carry these flowers? I seem to be moving a tad slow these days.”

“My pleasure Ma’am.” Well, it wasn't too much of a lie.

She looked again. “Marine, where were you stationed?”

“Vietnam, Ma’am. Ground-pounder. ‘69 to ‘71.”

She looked at me closer. “Wounded in action, I see. Well done, Marine. I’ll be as quick as I can.”

I lied a little bigger “No hurry, Ma’am.”

She smiled, and winked at me. “Son, I’m 85-years old and I can tell a lie from a long way off. Let’s get this done. Might be the last time I can do this. My name’s Joanne Wieserman, and I’ve a few Marines I’d like to see one more time.”

“Yes, Ma’am. At your service.”

She headed for the World War I section, stopping at a stone. She picked one of the bunches out of my arm and laid it on top of the stone. She murmured something I couldn’t quite make out. The name on the marble was Donald S. Davidson, USMC, France 1918.

She turned away and made a straight line for the World War II section, stopping at one stone. I saw a tear slowly tracking its way down her cheek.

She put a bunch on a stone; the name was Stephen X. Davidson, USMC, 1943.

She went up the row a ways and laid another bunch on a stone, Stanley J. Wieserman USMC , 1944.

She paused for a second, “Two more, son, and we’ll be done.”

I almost didn’t say anything, but, “Yes, Ma’am. Take your time.”

She looked confused. “Where’s the Vietnam section, son? I seem to have lost my way.” I pointed with my chin. “That way, Ma’am.” “Oh!” she chuckled quietly. “Son, me and old age ain’t too friendly.”

She headed down the walk I’d pointed at. She stopped at a couple of stones before she found the ones she wanted. She placed a bunch on Larry Wieserman USMC, 1968, and the last on Darrel Wieserman USMC, 1970.

She stood there and murmured a few words I still couldn’t make out. “OK, son, I’m finished. Get me back to my car and you can go home.”

“Yes, Ma’am. If I may ask, were those your kinfolk ?”

She paused. “Yes, Donald Davidson was my father; Stephen was my uncle; Stanley was my husband; Larry and Darrel were our sons. All killed in action, all Marines.” She stopped, whether she had finished, or couldn’t finish, I don’t know. She made her way to her car, slowly, and painfully.

I waited for a polite distance to come between us and then double-timed it over to Kevin waiting by the car. “Get to the ‘Out’-gate quick. I have something I’ve got to do.”

Kevin started to say something but saw the look I gave him. He broke the rules to get us there down the service road. We beat her. She hadn’t made it around the rotunda yet.

“Kevin, stand at attention next to the gate post. Follow my lead.” I humped it across the drive to the other post.

When the Cadillac came puttering around from the hedges and began the short straight traverse to the gate, I called in my best gunny’s voice: “TehenHut! Present Haaaarms!”

I have to hand it to Kevin, he never blinked an eye; full dress attention and a salute that would make his DI proud. She drove through that gate with two old worn-out soldiers giving her a send off she deserved, for service rendered to her country, and for knowing Duty, Honor and Sacrifice.

I am not sure, but I think I saw a salute returned from that Cadillac.

Instead of “The End”….just think of “Taps”.

Sugar Plums Dancing in My Head

On December 18, 1892, St. Petersburg saw the first production of The Nutcracker.  I'm probably the only one who have a love-hate relationship with the Nutcracker but maybe not.  Once you hear it, that tune sticks to your brain cavity.  At first, it's enjoyable.  You feel buoyed by the holiday spirit.  After about the 95th hours of sugar plum fairies dancing in your head you just might want to scream.

And then there is RJ and Hammy:

   

Only in LA

Pkin and I were on our way home and the freeway was moving nicely.  We are always happy when that happens.  Pkin, the ever conscientious driver, sees ahead that a CHP truck is driving across the road.  Across all five lanes of traffic which is not the best sign.  Then suddenly the tail lights in front of us and all around us turn red.  It's the middle of the day, near the holidays and Caltrans is doing maintenance and graffiti abatement.  They are painting out sprayed-on paint with a roller.  The kids that do the graffiti do it in seconds without a cherry picker, the Caltrans orange lighted sign truck AND the CHP escort.  This is the only in LA category.

Makes you wonder.

 

I tried to take a picture of the trail of cars behind us.  At least we could see the reason traffic had stopped.  The people in the back didn't have a clue.  There was no honking, just the boom-boom-boom of some idiot who wanted to lose his (they are usually male) hearing and bother the rest of society.

Pkin Couldn't Wait for Santa

If you're counting down, is Christmas day zero or day one?  Pkin brought a Spanish air rifle.  How do I know this?  Well, he told me.  And then he showed me.  When a 40-something wants you to touch his pellets, you better keep your distance.

Beancounters shared ...

Your Christmas is Most Like: A Christmas Story

Loving, fun, and totally crazy. Don't shoot your eye out!

What Movie Is Your Christmas Most Like?

My Bob is Growing Up

Today Bob jumped to the kitchen counter.  Do you remember that ubiquitous "Hang in There Kitty" poster?  That was Bob. 

I was cutting a roasted chicken and both Bob and Buster were underfoot.  Rosey was in the kitchen too.  Buster was standing on my left, using my leg as his prop.  Bob was stretching as tall as he could on my right when he got the idea to add a little umph to his extension.  Before you knew it, Bob was hanging on the lip of the kitchen sink.  He was a little shocked.  His little eyes were wide-open.  I gently patted him away but new immediately that the "good old days" were over. 

Our kitchen has doorways not doors.  From now on anything that is left on the counters or stove is pretty much fair game for the kitties.  I've reminded Pkin and will remind him again and again, and will remind myself too.  We do not leave butter out.  Kitties like to lick the butter.  We do not leave scraps on unattended plates on the counter.  All plates will need to be put in the dishwasher or otherwise cleaned.  We do not do a ton of things.

Do you have any suggestions other than adding locking doors for our predicament?  I remember when Spikey broke her first big thing.  It was a porcelain cookie jar that was atop the refrigerator.  The jar was in pieces on the floor and Spikey was sitting on her hind legs looking caught but not guilty.

Here are some decorating suggestions from CatAge for the holidays:

•	Cats climb trees, so make sure yours (your tree, not your cat) is secured to a wall, curtain rod, or railing.
•	Tinsel, ribbon, popcorn strings, metal hooks, pine needles, and glass, if ingested, can obstruct or even perforate the intestines. Use alternatives or hang out of reach.
•	Electrical cords, if chewed, can electrocute. Encase in tubing made of thick plastic.
•	Chocolate, alcohol, and cooked bones are toxic and potentially deadly if swallowed.
•	Candles can be knocked over, leading to obvious hazardous results.

Pkin

My Lookalikes

The Holidays and Separation of Church & State

No one would ever accuse me of being a US history encyclopedia.  I much preferred learning about ancient history.  In some ways it seemed most understandable to me which says a lot about me. 

I do know the basics about the US and the common denominator seems to be a desire to live free:  free to defend oneself, free to not be searched by the Crown whenever they felt like it, free to not be taxed up (or down or out) the yazoo, and free to practice the religion of one's choice and free to be who you are.  I'm sure there are more things, like at least 10 (the Bill of Rights).  Anyway, we are a country of many "who's," the vast majority of us have ancestors from somewhere else.  Some of us have ancestors who were here before the Vikings and the Puritans and all the rest, but I hear those ancestors came from Asia. 

I think we don't have a national language and we don't have a national religion because we are such a mixed group.  I also think that we used to be a majority Christian country, or else banks would be open on Christmas Day.  When banks in the US close on Yom Kippur I may have something else to say.  I heard the President had a Hanukkah celebration this year, and acknowledged a Jewish martyr (my word, and my Catholic upbringing.)   Is there a Ramadan feast scheduled in the Rose Garden next year?  I'm not trying to be too sarcastic I'm just wondering. 

In grammar school I had a forward thinking, gay teacher who celebrated everything and anything.  We did Japanese school children's day (I'm sure it has a real name), we did a coal mining dance.  We sang for Cinco de Mayo but didn't do anything for an actual Mexican national holiday like September 16.  Of course, we did something for Thanksgiving though I can't remember what.  I wonder if he's still teaching and do his students celebrate Stonewall. 

I can appreciate the differences, the gay teacher with his eccentricities (heck, it might just be that he was in the big city from the Midwest and he went wild,) the Jewish classmate who needed a copy of notes during the high holy days, or the co-worker who wanted a quiet place to pray to Allah.  I can appreciate the differences so long as no one is telling me how to dress, how to speak and how to think.  I can't appreciate someone saying that they were left out.  I guess I'm just not into the specialness of one because when everyone is special no one is. 

Happy Holidays!